Forget it or come back?
Eleanor, youll be the star fish in my aquarium, declared my suitor with a confidence that could have sold sand in the Sahara.
My eyes went round like a Ferris wheel.
Are you serious, James? I want to be your only fish, not just one of the lot Are you married? Why am I only hearing this now, when Im flying to your homeland?
No, Im not married, but James hesitated, as if he were about to spill the beans at a tea party.
Finish it, I prompted, keen to get the whole truth about British gentlemen.
You see, Eleanor, my parents have already picked a bride for me. I cant turn my back on them. We could have a temporary marriage, but youd also have to convert to Anglicanism. Otherwise He turned his gaze out of the aircraft window, as if the clouds might offer an escape route.
I was in my fourth month of pregnancy and went as white as a crumpet. Why, I wondered, would James choose the altitude to drop this bomb? He had plenty of chances to warn me on the ground.
I shut my eyes, tried not to imagine leaping out of the plane. My relatives and colleagues had warned me:
Dont jump in someone elses carriage, Eleanor. Their religion, mindset, and view of women are different. Youll end up chewing your own elbows.
I ignored them, blissfully unaware of the trap I was stepping into.
Im a lecturer at the Oxford Language Academy, teaching foreigners Russian. Over the years Ive helped countless students navigate life in a land that isnt theirs. I treated all my classes the same as ordinary pupils.
In September a new cohort arrived, and among them was James, a lanky, cheeky fellow with an exotic air that reminded me of a travelling circus performer. He lived in the university hall, studied diligently, and was politely unobtrusive. One day he approached me with an odd request:
Lecturer Eleanor, how much do you charge for extra tutoring?
Nothing. Why do you ask? Youre doing fine, I replied, never realizing I was stepping into a net hed carefully weaved.
May I invite you for a consultation? he said, eyes twinkling.
If you insist. Whats the topic? I answered, still clueless.
Relationships, he replied in a single word.
That evening I found myself in the tiny dormitory room where James waited, his face lit by a single bulb. The place was a relic: creaky, halfbroken furniture, windows so dirty you couldnt see the sky, and never a hot shower. Yet on the coffee table lay a fresh rose in a vase, a polished plate with washed fruit, and a bottle of red wine.
Hmm, hes actually prepared, I thought, a hint of sarcasm in my voice.
We talked about life, studies, his parents everything proper and polite. But that night, like a herd of wild horses, the evenings and nights that followed galloped away uncontrollably. James and I fell into pits, rose to the clouds, and seemed to disappear from solid ground entirely. Ten years later Id rather not revisit that whirlwind.
The fallout was heavy. The whole department knew about us; colleagues rolled their eyes, students whispered about our tangled romance.
Eleanor, dont lose your mind. Pull back while you still can. Why chase James? He has a slew of younger brides back home. In some places you can marry at thirteen; youre already twentyseven. Isnt it time you stopped dreaming of fairytale romance? warned one colleague, married to a man who spent his evenings at the pub.
Another, still single, sighed, Oh, the passion we could all use!
I had lost myself. I would have sprinted to Jamess side anywhere, even to the ends of the earth not quite Iran, but wherever he called home.
During the summer break we flew to his familys house. Midflight James started dropping the oddest declarations. He wanted to make me the star fish, essentially the senior wife in his well, lets just say I wouldnt be the only one. That scared me.
The plane touched down in a small English town where Jamess relatives greeted us. Sunkissed, tanned, and smiling folk ushered us into his parents home. James acted as translator, as his folks didnt understand my Russian. We spoke in English, while in the corner sat a girl of about fifteen, her eyes the only visible part under a bundle of loose clothing.
Meet Lily, announced Jamess father, as if introducing a new staff member. Our sons future wife.
I wanted to dig a hole and disappear. Lily was not a knockout; I, on the other hand, was a tall brunette with an hourglass figure and flawless skin. Yet I was twentyseven, and Lily was barely sixteen.
I returned from the trip dejected. There was no turning back; a baby was on the way. Over time I swapped my bright wardrobe for drab greys and blacks, hid behind hijabs and modest coats, kept only mascara and eyeliner as my cosmetics, and focused on eyes and brows.
I agreed to a temporary marriage, converted to Anglicanism, and tried my utmost to please my man. I loved James and wanted to obey him in everything.
Seven years later weJames, Lily, myself, and the childrenhad moved to London. I now had three sons; Lily had two daughters. James supported the whole clan, but I felt like an aging mistress, a foreigner in my own life. My jealousy of Lily, the official wife, was through the roof. Whenever James looked at Lily, my heart clenched with unbearable pain.
It seemed impossible to accept. I dreamed of fleeing this imagined paradise, but I knew that divorce would likely leave me without my sons; children usually stay with their father.
Finally, I took a desperate step. I told James I wanted to return to my own country. He looked genuinely surprised.
Whats missing, Eleanor? he asked.
Sorry, James, youll never understand my soul. Let me go, please, I sobbed.
Alright, spend time with your parents. The kids and I will miss you. Remember that. Come back soon, James said, gently patting my shoulder.
A month later I was on a flight back home.
Two long years have passed since then. I keep in touch with the kids and James by phone. Lily has given birth to a son. My boys grow up remembering me. Im torn, missing them, crying, and yet feeling nowhere to fly.
